


To Lament the Pryce

by PhoenixDragon



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Dark, Horror, M/M, dub-con (border non-con)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-06
Updated: 2005-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts from an Ex-Watcher</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lament the Pryce

  
**_Title:_** To Lament the Pryce  
 **Author:** PhoenixDragon  
 **Category:** Angst, Darkness  
 **Pairings:** None  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Date:** 06-07-05  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Summary/Synopsis:** Thoughts from an Ex-Watcher  
 **Notes:** A little piece created as a tribute to a lovely fic called Tatters, by Martha, thanks as always, to my mother (Croisanna) and my husband (Mike) for making me do this – I still have the bruises to show for it – if not, this and many other fic would be sitting in a dusty file folder somewhere.  
 **Warnings:** Some vagueness, some slashy hints.  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not, nor will I ever, own Angel or it's counterparts. Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, David Greenwalt, Fox, WB, ad infinitum own them. I'm just playing with them for awhile – I promise to hand them back in one piece...though as for the psychological damage –

His skin was a caress of cold, the iciness of it a bone deep chill, even when he was not touching you. But you are used to this now – used to working side by side with this monstrosity – used to the chill, the oppressing weight of his age –

Used to the odd smell of the ancient and long dead.

Funny to think that this was now a comforting smell…

Then there was the other side of it. The false warmth that burned like a furnace from his flesh – the smooth, unlined expanse of that flesh, previously white and blue with the pervasive chill, but now pink and overripe from his feeding – his age a looming monster across your bones, his span of Time a horror all it's own.

And the smell –

Of acid and copper, of water across leather – of age overlaid by youth.

You can actually handle the other – but after he had fed, after the heat of crimson liquid had poured down his throat to give him life – you want to scream, to gag, to run – even with the monster behind.

You want to bend down and wail at the twisted Darkness of the Universe – the same darkness you've delved into everyday, in books and tomes and ancient scripts – but it was not the same, viewing the darkness from a page, as it was when the Darkness breathed beside you.

Even worse when the Darkness tried to mask itself with the Light – drinking it in long, hungry draughts, to feed the glowing curse of the living into his veins, forcing it through his blood vessels to bring his mind to a fiery new life –

Staving off the Eternal Dark.

Yes, you much prefer the other…

It is more Real, more telling – it didn't cover the truth with the horrible lie, it didn't give back to the Damned what has once been taken – it didn't grant the soulless and the re-souled with those powers that had been removed – even if it was only a temporary fix.

It told the ultimate truth – that your friend, your boss, your worst walking nightmare, brought back to a half-life, when compared against the ordinary dark of your tomes, even against the commonness of what he essentially was – that he was out of place, that he didn't belong.

And that your friend, brother in arms, your companion, the keeper of your sanity –

Was the Insanity.

And that you feed it each day with your silence, and your friendship, and your own Darkness.

Until -

You could feed it no more.

And you welcomed the sweet bliss that was his Gift of Death, a Gift granted in his sane Madness of what he truly was –

As you fell into the arms of the Dark…

**Author's Note:**

> A little piece created as a tribute to a lovely fic called Tatters, by Martha, thanks as always, to my mother (Croisanna) and my husband (Mike) for making me do this (I still have the bruises to show for it) if not, this and many other fic would be sitting in a dusty file folder somewhere.


End file.
